There's a fungus among us. Or so it appeared in the bathroom mirror. The first red annular blob appeared on my chest a week after I arrived in London. I chalked it up to sensitive skin until a dozen of his spotty friends arrived on my torso a few days later. I squinted at them suspiciously in the mirror, but with classes starting and great London Indian food to be found, I had no time to fret about thirteen little red patches. I gave them the raspberry, but the little red monsters would not be ignored.
The next day I noticed ten more, and the next day ten more. The needle on my worry meter shot through the roof. Parading from mirror to mirror in my apartment and crying out in disgust, I was a prima donna with a serious rash.
Could this mean I would have to face that thing I feared so much? The devil himself? No, not ... socialized medicine! Before leaving the United States, I had a brilliant plan to handle British state-sponsored health care -- I simply wouldn't get sick. It seems my skin didn't get the memo. What's black, white, and red all over? Me. I hadn't the faintest clue where to find a dermatologist or who to ask. I hardly knew my phone number, much less how to find a medical specialist in a foreign country! It was a powerless, scary feeling.
I began dealing with my problem in the usual manner. I sunk down into my lumpy blue sofa and curled up into a little ball. Waking up an hour later, I checked the mirror again only to notice the rash creeping onto my back. You have to draw the line somewhere.
"That's it! Fungus, you are mine!" I cried. I knew what I had to do. I opened up the London yellow pages and made a complete fool of myself, stunning the British medical community with "Hello, I'm American and I need a doctor" until finally, someone agreed to see me. I took charge and it was a great feeling. I had a voice and I was going to use it.
This editorial is a celebration of my 25th anniversary. This is the 25th column I've written for The Dartmouth in the course of a year. I write for the same reason I picked up the phone to call a dermatologist -- they make me feel as if I have a voice and an impact on the world around me. On an admittedly small scale, offering up what's on my mind to the general public makes me feel integrated into the Dartmouth community.
As freshmen at Dartmouth, we jump into a moving ocean, filled with already operating ecosystems. There are definite currents already in the waters, and some fish have had a lot of experience in the sea. If you want, you can just be another neutrally-colored fish. You can hide behind a big rock called Gile or McLane or Ripley and emerge at the end of four years without having any impact at all on the other fish. Or you can move in schools with the other fish, swimming in patterns set by someone else, reacting when they react.
A complaint I've had with Dartmouth students in the past is not that they are a homogeneous group or that they lack amazing qualities, but that people seem so reluctant to display how wonderfully different they are. I know people with incredible talents, wacky musical tastes, unusual ethnic backgrounds, and truly fresh perspectives on life who make no effort to have their unique voices heard. There's a rich fabric of individuality that lies beneath a visual homogeneity.
The first time I wrote a column or did a show on WDCR or tap danced for an audience, it was scary. Putting your talents on display opens you to both praise and criticism. I've gotten both. But my only regret is that it took until my sophomore year before I could write my thoughts on this page. Being able to share my ideas and find that in many of them I am not alone --that has been one of the most satisfying elements to my Dartmouth life.
Sharing your voice can mean leading a club, inventing a community event, or simply sharing your uniqueness with your friends. I choose to write. The beauty of the editorials page is that it is a democratic medium --it brings opinions out of the woodwork that range from eloquent and enlightening to poorly constructed and annoying, but it is a forum for that abstract notion of community to emerge. I may not like what some people write, but I'm glad they're speaking their minds.
As for my "fungus", it turns out it's not a fungus at all. It's "pityriasis rosea", red spots of unknown origin -- a completely benign condition that goes away without treatment. Once I took the steps to seek a diagnosis, I couldn't believe I ever hesitated to pick up the phone. I wasted far too much time worrying and feeling powerless when relief required only a little initiative. Share your voice.
